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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
AT  URCANA-CHAjV;PAIGN 


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EDWARD  SMYTH  JONES 


THE  SYLVAN  CABIN 


A  Centenary  Ode 
on 

The  Birth  of  Lincoln 

By 

EDWARD  SMYTH  TONES 


With  an  I ntroduction  taken  froni 
The  New  York  Times 


CHICAGO 

Published  by 

I'HK  EDW  ARD  SMY  I'M  JONES  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright,  1915 

By  Edward  Smyth  Jones 

All  Rights  Reserved 


301. 

V'.)../?- 


IN  THE  WORDS  OK  LINCOLN 

Ail  that  I  arn  and  eter  hope  to 
I  oive  to  niy  sainted 
ni  other : 

I  DEDICATE  THESE  VERSES 


TO  MINE 


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Preface 


w 


HEX  Lincoln  said:  “A 
house  divided  against  it¬ 
self  cannot  stand;  the 
Union  cannot  long  con¬ 
tinue  half  slave  and  half 


free,”  he  restated  an  immortal  truth. 
Whether  the  slavery  be  chattel,  mental, 
moral,  material,  or  spiritual,  the  truth  re¬ 
mains  unchanged. 

The  Emancipation  Proclamation  not 
only  liberated  the  Negro,  but  the  poor 
rchites  as  well;  for  as  long  as  they  had  to 
eompete  with  Negro  slave  labor,  they 
flowed  continually  into  that  broad  stream 
of  the  oppressed ,  known  as  “poor  white 
trash.”  Lincoln  s  pen  broke  the  shackles 
from  black  and  white  alike,  giving  them 
the  opportunity  to  earn  and  eat  the  bread 
of  the  sweat  of.  their  brows. 

That  was  physical  freedom.  They  are 
now  held  bij  the  most  inexorable  tyrant, 
IGNORANCE,  from  whose  regime  they 
must  be  freed.  The  prime  need  of  the 
Emancipated  is  MORE  AND  BET¬ 
TER  EDUCATION.  Th  e  new  Lincoln 
must  emancipate  the  mind.  May  he  soon 
appear! 

Since  publication  of  “The  Sylvan 
Cabin  and  Other  Verse,”  in  1011,  the  Lin¬ 
coln  Ode  has  elicited  such  favorable  men¬ 
tion,  that  I  have  decided  to  issue  it  sepa¬ 
rately,  in  the  present  form,  with  the  hope 
that  it  may  have  a  wider  circulation  among 


PREPACK 


the  people;  that  the  true  Avierican  spirit, 
'which  found  its  highest  manifestation  in 
Lincoln,  the  same  spirit  of  which: 

Our  tongues  most  gladly  sing  thy  praise, 

And  from  it  ne'er  shall  cease — till  all 
The  land  he  free! 

may  become  thoroughly  disseminated 
throughout  the  land;  that  all  the  people, 
white  and  black,  may  “catch  one  note  of 
thy  immortal  song  that  fills  the  air,”  and 
therewith  become  so  imhued  that: 

So  must  thy  spirit  fill  the  hearts 
Of  all  Columbia's  youth,  as  once 
It  filled  old  Honest  Abe,"  thy  son. 

Thy  pride — the  first-born  of  thy  LOVE! 

For  when  each  lowly  lad  well  hnoies 
That  ever  uptvards  he  may  soar. 

Beyond  vain  tyrants'  galling  sway 
To  fairer  climes  tvhere  Freedom  reigns: 
Then  ivill  the  shadozv  of  thy  wnng 
For  aye  to  them  a  shelter  be! 

may  become  a  living  reality. 


San  Francisco,  Jidy  Jfth,  1015 


AUTHOl? 


IntroduSiion 


T 


wo  CHARACTERISTICS 


of  tills  long  poem  that  strike 
the  reader  on  first  reading  are 
eoherenev  and  sincerity.  He 


tells  his  lofty  story  Avithout  disgression, 
and  lauds  his  nohle  hero  A\ithout  hypoc¬ 
risy.  The  third  characteristic  is  imagina¬ 
tion.  It  is  no  ordinary  mind  that  says  in 
connection  Avith  Lincoln’s  birthplace: 

Tliese  gloomy  woods^  whose  blackness  stands 
Up  hard  against  horizon’s  slope; 

Grim^  spectral^  dreaded^  and  untrod^ 

Save  monsters  great  of  savage  mien^ 

That  prowled  or  crouched  upon  their  prey ; 

Sent  forth  a  vicious  roar  that  shook 
Old  Svlva  far  and  near,  from  vale 
Tlirough  crag  to  mountain  peak ! 

Upon  this  spot  the  Redskin  oft 
Has  danced  his  “War  Dance”  and  his  “Feast,” 
His  face  a  reddish  hue  aglow — 

I.ong  locks  with  eaglets’  plumes  bedecked ; 

H  is  bow  and  never-failing  dart^ 

And  scalper  dangling  at  his  side ! 

Wore  brightly  gleamed  his  wary  eye^ 

As  braves  the  war-whoop  loudly  yelled — 

A  sight  more  like  the  fiery  fiends 
From  Pluto’s  ghastly  shore  returned 
Than  human  blood  and  bone ! 

They  all  have  gone  and  left  no  tale 
But  woe  which  hurled  them  ever  hence 
To  that  shore  whence  no  bark  returns. 

Old  Cabin^  thou^  the  temple  art^ 

Where  Freedom’s  spirit  dwells! 

The  felloAA’  is  AAorth  Avhile.  He  maA’^  not 


he  tlie  best  AA  aiter  that  Avaits  in  tlie  EaeultA' 
Clnl),  hut  it  AA’ouhl  he  interesting  to  knoAA’ 
hoAA’  many  better  poets  eat  tliere. 


INTRODUCTION 


Of  course,  if  he  were  never  going  to 
write  any  more  poetry,  his  ease  would  be 
very  simple.  Peoj^le  could  buy  his  “Sylvan 
Cabin”  and  he  could  collect  the  royalty. 
But  it  is  not  so  easy  as  this.  He  says  that 
he  must  write,  that  ideas  come  into  his 
head,  and  he  simply  must  put  them  down, 
black  on  white.  Of  poems  that  he  now 
has  in  manuscript,  especial  notice  should 
be  taken  of  his  “Sea-Queen:  A  Poem  in 
IMemory  of  the  Ill-starred  Titanic.”  It  is 
dedicated  “To  the  Heroes  Who  Fell 
Asleep  on  the  Titanic,  INIonday  Morning, 
Ajn’il  15,  1912,”  and  is  the  longest,  and 
in  some  plaees  the  best  thing  he  has  yet 
done. 

So  things  rotate  in  this  world.  A  house 
that  was  formerly  given  over  to  the  needs 
of  the  mindless  is  now  the  refectory  for 
the  especially  sane  and  teachers  of  sanity. 
It  seems,  indeed,  that  nothing  is  constant 
but  change.  And  the  things  these  men  of 
mind  feed  on  are  brought  to  them  by  a 
poet  with  his  “eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling.” 
Blind  is  the  man  who  fails  to  see  the  eter¬ 
nal  return  of  the  same,  and  unwise  is  he 
Avho  does  not  believe  in  the  relathdty  of  all 
things. — The  New  York  Times,  Sunday, 
February  16,  1913. 


rHE  SYLVAN  CABIN 


*‘So  must  thy  spirit  Jill  the  hearts 
Of  all  Columbia' s  youth,  as  once 
It  filled  old  ‘Honest  Abe/  thy  son. 

Thy  pride — the  first-born  of  thy  love!" 


The  Sylvan  Cabin 

A  CEXTENARY  ODE 
OX  THE  DIRTH  OF  lAXCOI.X 


O  FAIREST  Dame  of  sylvan 

glades, 

We  come  to  pay  thee  homage 
due, 

Embrace  thee  softly  and  to 
kiss 

Thy  lovely,  long-forsaken  cheeks; 

To  smooth  thj"  flowing  silver  locks 
And  bind  around  thy  snowy  neck 
A  necklace  golden  studded  fidl 
AVith  rarest  gems  and  shining  pearls. 

Our  eyes  though  sometimes  dimmed 
with  tears 

In  purer  lustre  sparkle  forth 
AVhene’er  they  fall  agaze  on  thee! 

Our  ears  attuned  to  thy  sweet  lay 
Catch  every  flowing  cadent  note 
And  hear  it  ever  safe  within 
Our  joyous  hearts,  which  gladly  leap 
AVhene’er  thy  name  is  called! 

Deep  in  our  souls  the  quenchless  fire 
Of  love  still  brightly  burns  upon 
The  sacred  altar,  set  apart. 

For  spirit  commune  and  sacrifice; 

AA’^hose  high-])riest  tends  with  loving  care. 


And  unto  thee  sweet  incense  bums. 

Our  tongues  most  gladly  sing  thy  praise, 
And  from  it  ne’er  shall  eease — till  all 
The  land  be  free! 


II 

Full  eentury  lonely  hast  thou  dwelt 
Here  all  forsaken  and  forgot! 

All  men  failed  to  visit  thee  save 
Some  idle  lover  of  sylvan  haunts 
Who  trod,  perchance,  this  hallowed  spot. 
And  cast  a  pensive  eye  upon 
This  lovely  glade,  thy  sole  abode 
(Full  lost  in  these  continuous  woods), 
And  brooding  o’er  thy  lowly  lot. 

Oft  thus  did  muse: — 

“This  cabin  lone 

Here  stands  to  tell  the  tale  of  him, 
Backwoodsman  brave,  who  having  scaled 
The  mystic  mountains  ne’er  returned 
To  them,  though  loved  yet  left  behind; 
But  here  he  chose  his  last  abode. 

These  gloomy  woods  whose  blackness 
stands 

Up  hard  against  horizon’s  slope; 

Grim,  spectral,  dreaded  and  untrod 
Sav^  monsters  great  of  savage  mien, 
That  prowled,  or  crouched  upon  their 
prey ; 

Sent  forth  a  vicious  roar  that  shook 
Old  Sylva  far  and  near,  from  vale 
Through  crag  to  mountain  peak! 

Upon  this  spot  the  Redskin  oft 
Has  danced  his  ‘War  Dance’  and  his 
‘Feast,’ 

His  face  a  reddish  hue  aglow 


I  jong  locks  with  eaglets’  plumes  bedecked ; 


His  bow  and  never-failing  dart, 

And  sealper  dangling  at  his  side! 
jMore  brightly  gleamed  his  wary  eye, 

As  braves  the  war-whoop  loudly  yelled — 
A  sight  more  like  the  fiery  fiends 
From  Pinto’s  ghastly  shore  returned 
Than  human  blood  and  bone! 

They  all  have  gone  and  left  no  tale 
But  woe  which  hurled  them  ever  hence 
To  that  shore  whence  no  bark  returns. 
Old  Cabin,  thou,  the  temple  art, 

AVhere  Freedom’s  spirit  dwells!” 

Ill 

Thus  has  time  passed  vatli  naught 

more  said; 

For  man  in  his  pedantic  art 
Soars  far  in  feeble  flights  of  song 
From  Nature’s  heart,  and  thus  he  fails 
With  Nature’s  God  to  hold  commune! 
The  bard  has  slept,  dreamed  many  a 
dream. 

But  failed  to  dream  one  dream  of  thee. 
High  hangs  his  lyre  on  willow  reed. 

And  sitting  beneath  yon  shady  nook. 

He  fails  to  catch  one  note  of  thv 
Immortal  song  that  fills  the  air. 

Awake,  O  bard,  from  slumber  deep! 
Attune  thy  lyre;  let  Nature  breathe 
In  her  inspiring  breath  of  song; 

Then  wilt  thou  sing  a  song  most  sweet. 
The  song  by  Nature’s  vesper  choir. 
Through  all  the  countless  ages  sung — 
And  still  is  singing  day  by  day. 

Then  all  the  world  will  ioin  thv  sweet 

•  /  • 

Befrain  in  praise  and  ardent  love 
Of  this  fair  forest  Dame! 


IV 


TPIE  nations  all  their  day  shall  have ; 
Yet  each  in  turn  shall  rise  and 
fall, 

As  falls  the  dark-brown  autumn  leaf; 

Or  as  those  dread  sky-kissing  tides, 
Which  toss  frail  barks  high  upon 
Some  ghastly,  frowning  storm-heat 
shore — 

Though  slowly,  yet  quite  surely  ebb  away. 

Aye!  Egypt  fair  once  spread  tbe  Xile, 
And  green-bay-tree-like  proudly  flour¬ 
ished  ; 

Her  snowy  sails  seaports  bedecked. 

And  deeply  ploughed  the  rolling  main. 

Or  clave  the  placid  lakes,  as  does 
The  gentle  swan,  when  some  soft  breeze 
The  bulrush  stirs,  flings  its  perfume 
Upon  the  rippling  silver  waves! 

Eair  cities  dotted  here  and  there 
Her  vast  domain.  Her  roval  line 

ft. 

Of  Pharaohs  held  the  sceptre  gold 
Upon  her  all-emblazoned  throne. 

Now  Egypt  fair  is  Avreck  and  ruin; 
For,  as  fled  on  the  flight  of  years. 

The  unrelenting  Hand  of  Time 
Wiped  her  svA^eet  Ausage  off  the  globe! 
Naught  save  the  grim,  grey  pyramid, 
Sublimest  work  of  man,  yet  stands 
To  greet  the  rosy  morn,  A\dth  proud 
Uplifted  head,  expanded  chest — 

A  death  defiant  scoff  at  Time! 

Yet  hoary  Time  in  his  A\ald  rage 
Of  AATeck  and  ruin,  like  Joa'c  shall  hurl 
His  fiery  bolts  upon  the  head 
Of  pyramid  AAdth  ire,  and  crush 
And  raze  it  to  its  base  AAoth  scorn! 


NEiXT  Greece,  tlie  fairest  Xyin})li 

that  trod 

This  helted  globe  upon,  once  slione 
As  sliines  the  IMorning  Orb,  long  ere 
The  Dawn  the  ])nrple  East  has  kissed ; 
High  reared  her  sacred  temples  in 
Olympia’s  shady  groves,  and  built 
There  flaming  altars  to  her  gods. 

Old  Zens  and  Phoebus  oft  here  sat 
In  council  with  their  fellow  beings. 

And  Homer,  fiery  hard,  was  first 
To  smite  the  chords  of  Nature’s  Ivre; 
Sweet  sang  he  till  the  earth  was  filled 
IVith  rarest  strains  of  rapturous  song! 

Then  Art  and  Letters  blew  and  blushed. 
The  fairest  flowers  of  ages  past. 

Whose  essence,  spilled  upon  the  breeze. 

Is  M'af ted  still  forever  on; 

And  man  in  calm  delight  inhales 


Quintessence  of  pure  classic  lore! 

But  Greece  is  gone!  Her  statues  fair 
Are  mingled  with  the  dust ;  each  god 
Has  flown  some  fairer  clime  to  rule. 

Or,  subdued,  ^^■alks  the  dark  abvss. 


VI 

Then  Rome,  the  gaudy  Southern 

Queen, 

On  seven  nigged,  roek-rihhed  hills 
Securely  built  her  throne.  The  world 
Then  saw  a  mighty  power  rise 
In  splendor  great,  as  does  the  sun 
On  some  young,  swift-winged  morn  of 
June. 

A  brighter  dawning  seemed  to  break; 


Another  life  was  lived — for  through 
The  Roman  vein  there  coursed  a  blood 
A  fiery  burning  blood  of  ire, 

That  rose  and  conquered  all  the  world. 

Great  C^eesar  led  his  legions  forth 
From  victory  on  to  victory, 

And  hung  her  royal  pennons  high 
In  tower,  palace-hall,  and  throne; 

The  Roman  sceptre  swayed  the  globe. 
Soft  music  soothed  her  savage  ear. 

Fine  arts  and  sculpture  were  her  toys. 
And  glory  was  her  “starry  crown.” 

But  now  we  read  the  “Fall  of  Rome,” 
The  doleful  lay  that  tells  the  tale 
Of  all  who  thus  have  passed  away. 


VII 


TO  TIIFE,  f  air  Dame,  we  thus  relate 
The  things  which  were  but  are  no 
more ; 

That  thou  mightest  know  the  worldly  way. 
And  knowing,  have  no  timid  fear 
To  ever  stir  thy  peaceful  breast, 

Xo  fate  like  theirs  awaits  for  thee; 

For  fortune’s  maid  shall  tend  with  care 
Thy  every  nod  and  beck — yes,  place 
Upon  thy  queenly  brow  a  crown. 

The  glittering  crown  by  Freedom  worn! 
Xo  flint  rock  ribs  thy  temple’s  base, 

X^o  stone  its  corner  marks;  for  that 
What  carest  thou?  For  boasted  pride? 

Its  frame  is  of  the  sturdy  oak. 

Inlaid  with  ribs  of  stately  pine; 

The  Prince  and  Princess  twain  are  they 
Of  all  Columbia’s  giant  woods. 

The  sylvan  songsters  sing  thy  praise 
From  dawn  till  set  of  sun,  and  then 


The  mockingbird,  thy  queen  of  song, 

In  praise  of  thee  pours  forth  lier  lay 

Till  evei’y  mellow  silver  note. 

Far  floating  in  the  silent  trees. 

Is  taken  hy  an  elfin  choir. 

And  chanted  softly  to  the  moon. 

The  eagle  her  wee  eaglets  tells 

Of  thee,  that  they  may  freedom  love; 

Then  soaring  full  beyond  the  clouds. 

She  looks  with  vaunted  pride  on  thee. 

So  must  thy  spirit  fill  the  hearts 

Of  all  Columbia’s  youth,  as  once 

It  filled  old  “Honest  Abe,’’  thy  son. 

Thy  pride — the  first-born  of  thy  love! 

For  when  each  lowlv  lad  well  knows 

* 

That  ever  upwards  he  may  soar. 

Beyond  vain  tyrants’  galling  sway 
To  fairer  climes  where  Freedom  rein'iis 
Then  will  the  shadow  of  thv  wino’ 

A 

For  ave  to  them  a  shelter  be! 

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